Betekintés: Charlotte Bronte - Jane Eyre

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Jane Eyre
Charlotte Bronte

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Jane Eyre

Preface
A preface to the first edition of ‘Jane Eyre’ being
unnecessary, I gave none: this second edition demands a
few words both of acknowledgment and miscellaneous
remark.
My thanks are due in three quarters.
To the Public, for the indulgent ear it has inclined to a
plain tale with few pretensions.
To the Press, for the fair field its honest suffrage has
opened to an obscure aspirant.
To my Publishers, for the aid their tact, their energy,
their practical sense and frank liberality have afforded an
unknown and unrecommended Author.
The Press and the Public are but vague personifications
for me, and I must thank them in vague terms; but my
Publishers are definite: so are certain generous critics who
have encouraged me as only large-hearted and highminded men know how to encourage a struggling
stranger; to them, i.e., to my Publishers and the select
Reviewers, I say cordially, Gentlemen, I thank you from
my heart.

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Having thus acknowledged what I owe those who have
aided and approved me, I turn to another class; a small
one, so far as I know, but not, therefore, to be
overlooked. I mean the timorous or carping few who
doubt the tendency of such books as ‘Jane Eyre:’ in whose
eyes whatever is unusual is wrong; whose ears detect in
each protest against bigotry—that parent of crime—an
insult to piety, that regent of God on earth. I would
suggest to such doubters certain obvious distinctions; I
would remind them of certain simple truths.
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is
not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To
pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift
an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns.
These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they
are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often
confound them: they should not be confounded:
appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow
human doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a
few, should not be substituted for the world-redeeming
creed of Christ. There is—I repeat it—a difference; and it
is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly and clearly
the line of separation between them.

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The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered,
for it has been accustomed to blend them; finding it
convenient to make external show pass for sterling
worth—to let white-washed walls vouch for clean shrines.
It may hate him who dares to scrutinise and expose—to
rase the gilding, and show base metal under it—to
penetrate the sepulchre, and reveal charnel relics: but hate
as it will, it is indebted to him.
Ahab did not like Micaiah, because he never
prophesied good concerning him, but evil; probably he
liked the sycophant son of Chenaannah better; yet might
Ahab have escaped a bloody death, had he but stopped his
ears to flattery, and opened them to faithful counsel.
There is a man in our own days whose words are not
framed to tickle delicate ears: who, to my thinking, comes
before the great ones of society, much as the son of Imlah
came before the throned Kings of Judah and Israel; and
who speaks truth as deep, with a power as prophet-like
and as vital—a mien as dauntless and as daring. Is the
satirist of ‘Vanity Fair’ admired in high places? I cannot
tell; but I think if some of those amongst whom he hurls
the Greek fire of his sarcasm, and over whom he flashes
the levin-brand of his denunciation, were to take his

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warnings in time—they or their seed might yet escape a
fatal Rimoth-Gilead.
Why have I alluded to this man? I have alluded to him,
Reader, because I think I see in him an intellect
profounder and more unique than his contemporaries have
yet recognised; because I regard him as the first social
regenerator of the day—as the very master of that working
corps who would restore to rectitude the warped system
of things; because I think no commentator on his writings
has yet found the comparison that suits him, the terms
which rightly characterise his talent. They say h
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e is like
Fielding: they talk of his wit, humour, comic powers. He
resembles Fielding as an eagle does a vulture: Fielding
could stoop on carrion, but Thackeray never does. His wit
is bright, his humour attractive, but both bear the same
relation to his serious genius that the mere lambent sheetlightning playing under the edge of the summer-cloud
does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb. Finally, I
have alluded to Mr. Thackeray, because to him—if he will
accept the tribute of a total stranger—I have dedicated this
second edition of ‘JANE EYRE.’
CURRER BELL.
December 21st, 1847.
NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION
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I avail myself of the opportunity which a third edition
of ‘Jane Eyre’ affords me, of again addressing a word to the
Public, to explain that my claim to the title of novelist
rests on this one work alone. If, therefore, the authorship
of other works of fiction has been attributed to me, an
honour is awarded where it is not merited; and
consequently, denied where it is justly due.
This explanation will serve to rectify mistakes which
may already have been made, and to prevent future errors.
CURRER BELL.
April 13th, 1848.

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Chapter I
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We
had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an
hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when
there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind
had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so
penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of
the question.
I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on
chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in
the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart
saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and
humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to
Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.
The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now
clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay
reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings
about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying)
looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from
joining the group; saying, ‘She regretted to be under the
necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she
heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own

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observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to
acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more
attractive and sprightly manner— something lighter,
franker, more natural, as it were—she really must exclude
me from privileges intended only for contented, happy,
little children.’
‘What does Bessie say I have done?’ I asked.
‘Jane, I don’t like cavillers or questioners; besides, there
is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her
elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you
can speak pleasantly, remain silent.’
A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped
in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself
of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with
pictures. I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up
my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn
the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in
double retirement.
Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right
hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting,
but not separating me from the drear November day. At
intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I
studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered
a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn
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and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away
wildly before a long and lamentable blast.
I returned to my book—Bewick’s History of British
Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally
speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages
that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They
were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of ‘the
solitary rocks and promontories’ by them only inhabited;
of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its
southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North
Cape ‘Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,
Boils
round
the
naked,
melancholy
isles
Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic
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surge
Pours in among the stormy Hebrides.’
Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak
shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla,
Iceland, Greenland, with ‘the vast sweep of the Arctic
Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space,—that
reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the
accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine
heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre
the multiplied rigours of extreme cold.’ Of these deathwhite realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like
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all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through
children’s brains, but strangely impressive. The words in
these introductory pages connected themselves with the
succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to the rock
standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the
broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and
ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck
just sinking.
I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary
churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two
trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its
newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide.
The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to
be marine phantoms.
The fiend pinning down the thief’s pack behind him, I
passed over quickly: it was an object of terror.
So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock,
surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.
Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my
undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet
ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales
Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she
chanced to be in good humour; and when, having
brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she
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allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs.
Reed’s lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed
our eager attention with passages of love and adventure
taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at a later
period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry,
Earl of Moreland.
With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at
least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and
that came too soon. The breakfast-room door opened.
‘Boh! Madam Mope!’ cried the voice of John Reed;
then he paused: he found the room apparently empty.
‘Where the dickens is she!’ he continued. ‘Lizzy!
Georgy! (calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama
she is run out into the rain—bad animal!’
‘It is well I drew the curtain,’ thought I; and I wished
fervently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor
would John Reed have found it out himself; he was not
quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her
head in at the door, and said at once ‘She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack.’
And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea
of being dragged forth by the said Jack.
‘What do you want?’ I asked, with awkward diffidence.

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‘Say, ‘What do you want, Master Reed?’’ was the
answer. ‘I want you to come here;’ and seating himself in
an arm-chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to
approach and stand before him.
John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four
years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his
age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments
in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He
gorged himself habitually at table, which made him
bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby
cheeks. He ought now to have been at school; but his
mama had taken him home for a month or two, ‘on
account of his delicate health.’ Mr. Miles, the master,
affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes
and sweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother’s
heart turned from an opinion so harsh, and inclined rather
to the more refined idea that John’s sallowness was owing
to over-application and, perhaps, to pining after home.
John had not much affection for his mother and sisters,
and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not
two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the
day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and
every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came
near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the
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Jane Eyre

terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever
against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants
did not like to offend their young master by taking my
part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the
subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me,
though he did both now and then in her very presence,
more frequently, however, behind her back.
Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he
spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at
me as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew
he would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I
mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who
would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in
my face; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck
suddenly and strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my
equilibrium retired back a step or two from his chair.
‘That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile
since,’ said he, ‘and for your sneaking way of getting
behind curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes
two minutes since, you rat!’
Accustomed to John Reed’s abuse, I never had an idea
of replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow
which would certainly follow the insult.
‘What were you doing behind the curtain?’ he asked.
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‘I was reading.’
‘Show the book.’
I returned to the window and fetched it thence.
‘You have no business to take our books; you are a
dependent, mama says; you have no money; your father
left you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with
gentlemen’s children like us, and eat the same meals we
do, and wear clothes at our mama’s expense. Now, I’ll
teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they ARE
mine; all the house belongs to me, or will do in a few
years. Go and stand by the door, out of the way of the
mirror and the windows.’
I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but
when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to
hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not
soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me,
and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it.
The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its
climax; other feelings succeeded.
‘Wicked and cruel boy!’ I said. ‘You are like a
murderer—you are like a slave-driver—you are like the
Roman emperors!’
I had read Goldsmith’s History of Rome, and had
formed my opinion of Nero, Caligula, &c. Also I had
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drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought thus to
have declared aloud.
‘What! what!’ he cried. ‘Did she say that to me? Did
you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won’t I tell mama?
but first—‘
He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my
shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw
in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood
from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of
somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time
predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort.
I don’t very well know what I did with my hands, but he
called me ‘Rat! Rat!’ and bellowed out aloud. Aid was
near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed,
who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene,
followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted:
I heard the words ‘Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!’
‘Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!’
Then Mrs. Reed subjoined ‘Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in
there.’ Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I
was borne upstairs.

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Chapter II
I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a
circumstance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion
Bessie and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertain of me.
The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather OUT of
myself, as the French would say: I was conscious that a
moment’s mutiny had already rendered me liable to
strange penalties, and, like any other rebel slave, I felt
resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths.
‘Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she’s like a mad cat.’
‘For shame! for shame!’ cried the lady’s-maid. ‘What
shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman,
your benefactress’s son! Your young master.’
‘Master! How is he m
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y master? Am I a servant?’
‘No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for
your keep. There, sit down, and think over your
wickedness.’
They had got me by this time into the apartment
indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool:
my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair
of hands arrested me instantly.

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‘If you don’t sit still, you must be tied down,’ said
Bessie. ‘Miss Abbot, lend me your garters; she would
break mine directly.’
Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary
ligature. This preparation for bonds, and the additional
ignominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of
me.
‘Don’t take them off,’ I cried; ‘I will not stir.’
In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by
my hands.
‘Mind you don’t,’ said Bessie; and when she had
ascertained that I was really subsiding, she loosened her
hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot stood with folded
arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as
incredulous of my sanity.
‘She never did so before,’ at last said Bessie, turning to
the Abigail.
‘But it was always in her,’ was the reply. ‘I’ve told
Missis often my opinion about the child, and Missis agreed
with me. She’s an underhand little thing: I never saw a girl
of her age with so much cover.’
Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she
said—‘You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under

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obligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to
turn you off, you would have to go to the poorhouse.’
I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new
to me: my very first recollections of existence included
hints of the same kind. This reproach of my dependence
had become a vague sing-song in my ear: very painful and
crushing, but only half intelligible. Miss Abbot joined in ‘And you ought not to think yourself on an equality
with the Misses Reed and Master Reed, because Missis
kindly allows you to be brought up with them. They will
have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is
your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself
agreeable to them.’
‘What we tell you is for your good,’ added Bessie, in
no harsh voice, ‘you should try to be useful and pleasant,
then, perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you
become passionate and rude, Missis will send you away, I
am sure.’
‘Besides,’ said Miss Abbot, ‘God will punish her: He
might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and
then where would she go? Come, Bessie, we will leave
her: I wouldn’t have her heart for anything. Say your
prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you

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don’t repent, something bad might be permitted to come
down the chimney and fetch you away.’
They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind
them.
The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept
in, I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx
of visitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn
to account all the accommodation it contained: yet it was
one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion.
A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung
with curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a
tabernacle in the centre; the two large windows, with
their blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded in
festoons and falls of similar drapery; the carpet was red; the
table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson
cloth; the walls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of
pink in it; the wardrobe, the toilet-table, the chairs were
of darkly polished old mahogany. Out of these deep
surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the piledup mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy
Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely less prominent was an
ample cushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also
white, with a footstool before it; and looking, as I
thought, like a pale throne.
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This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was
silent, because remote from the nursery and kitchen;
solemn, because it was known to be so seldom entered.
The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe
from the mirrors and the furniture a week’s quiet dust: and
Mrs. Reed herself, at far intervals, visited it to review
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the
contents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where
were stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a
miniature of her deceased husband; and in those last words
lies the secret of the red-room—the spell which kept it so
lonely in spite of its grandeur.
Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this
chamber he breathed his last; here he lay in state; hence his
coffin was borne by the undertaker’s men; and, since that
day, a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from
frequent intrusion.
My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had
left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble
chimney-piece; the bed rose before me; to my right hand
there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken
reflections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were
the muffled windows; a great looking-glass between them
repeated the vacant majesty of the bed and room. I was
not quite sure whether they had locked the door; and
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when I dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas! yes:
no jail was ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross
before the looking-glass; my fascinated glance
involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. All looked
colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality:
and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a
white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering
eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect
of a real spirit: I thought it like one of the tiny phantoms,
half fairy, half imp, Bessie’s evening stories represented as
coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing
before the eyes of belated travellers. I returned to my
stool.
Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was
not yet her hour for complete victory: my blood was still
warm; the mood of the revolted slave was still bracing me
with its bitter vigour; I had to stem a rapid rush of
retrospective thought before I quailed to the dismal
present.
All John Reed’s violent tyrannies, all his sisters’ proud
indifference, all his mother’s aversion, all the servants’
partiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark
deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering,
always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned?
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Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to
win any one’s favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and
selfish, was respected. Georgiana, who had a spoiled
temper, a very acrid spite, a captious and insolent carriage,
was universally indulged. Her beauty, her pink cheeks and
golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked at
her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault. John no
one thwarted, much less punished; though he twisted the
necks of the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the
dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse vines of their
fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the
conservatory: he called his mother ‘old girl,’ too;
sometimes reviled her for her dark skin, similar to his
own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently tore
and spoiled her silk attire; and he was still ‘her own
darling.’ I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every
duty; and I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and
sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night.
My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I
had received: no one had reproved John for wantonly
striking me; and because I had turned against him to avert
farther irrational violence, I was loaded with general
opprobrium.

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‘Unjust!—unjust!’ said my reason, forced by the
agonising stimulus into precocious though transitory
power: and Resolve, equally wrought up, instigated some
strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable
oppression—as running away, or, if that could not be
effected, never eating or drinking more, and letting myself
die.
What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary
afternoon! How all my brain was in tumult, and all my
heart in insurrection! Yet in what darkness, what dense
ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could not
answer the ceaseless inward question—WHY I thus
suffered; now, at the distance of—I will not say how many
years, I see it clearly.
I was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody
there; I had nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her
children, or her chosen vassalage. If they did not lov
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e me,
in fact, as little did I love them. They were not bound to
regard with affection a thing that could not sympathise
with one amongst them; a heterogeneous thing, opposed
to them in temperament, in capacity, in propensities; a
useless thing, incapable of serving their interest, or adding
to their pleasure; a noxious thing, cherishing the germs of
indignation at their treatment, of contempt of their
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judgment. I know that had I been a sanguine, brilliant,
careless, exacting, handsome, romping child—though
equally dependent and friendless—Mrs. Reed would have
endured my presence more complacently; her children
would have entertained for me more of the cordiality of
fellow-feeling; the servants would have been less prone to
make me the scapegoat of the nursery.
Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past
four o’clock, and the beclouded afternoon was tending to
drear twilight. I heard the rain still beating continuously
on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the
grove behind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as a stone,
and then my courage sank. My habitual mood of
humiliation, self-doubt, forlorn depression, fell damp on
the embers of my decaying ire. All said I was wicked, and
perhaps I might be so; what thought had I been but just
conceiving of starving myself to death? That certainly was
a crime: and was I fit to die? Or was the vault under the
chancel of Gateshead Church an inviting bourne? In such
vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie buried; and led by
this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt on it with gathering
dread. I could not remember him; but I knew that he was
my own uncle—my mother’s brother—that he had taken
me when a parentless infant to his house; and that in his
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last moments he had required a promise of Mrs. Reed that
she would rear and maintain me as one of her own
children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept this
promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her nature
would permit her; but how could she really like an
interloper not of her race, and unconnected with her, after
her husband’s death, by any tie? It must have been most
irksome to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to
stand in the stead of a parent to a strange child she could
not love, and to see an uncongenial alien permanently
intruded on her own family group.
A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not—
never doubted— that if Mr. Reed had been alive he
would have treated me kindly; and now, as I sat looking at
the white bed and overshadowed walls— occasionally also
turning a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaning
mirror—I began to recall what I had heard of dead men,
troubled in their graves by the violation of their last
wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the perjured and
avenge the oppressed; and I thought Mr. Reed’s spirit,
harassed by the wrongs of his sister’s child, might quit its
abode—whether in the church vault or in the unknown
world of the departed—and rise before me in this
chamber. I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs, fearful lest
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any sign of violent grief might waken a preternatural voice
to comfort me, or elicit from the gloom some haloed face,
bending over me with strange pity. This idea, consolatory
in theory, I felt would be terrible if realised: with all my
might I endeavoured to stifle itI endeavoured to be firm.
Shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried
to look boldly round the dark room; at this moment a
light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray
from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind?
No; moonlight was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it
glided up to the ceiling and quivered over my head. I can
now conjecture readily that this streak of light was, in all
likelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried by some one
across the lawn: but then, prepared as my mind was for
horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought
the swift darting beam was a herald of some coming vision
from another world. My heart beat thick, my head grew
hot; a sound filled my ears, which I deemed the rushing of
wings; something seemed near me; I was oppressed,
suffocated: endurance broke down; I rushed to the door
and shook the lock in desperate effort. Steps came running
along the outer passage; the key turned, Bessie and Abbot
entered.
‘Miss Eyre, are you ill?’
Figyelem! Ez itt a doksi tartalma kivonata.
Kérlek kattints ide, ha a dokumentum olvasóban szeretnéd megnézni!


said Bessie.
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‘What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me!’
exclaimed Abbot.
‘Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!’ was my cry.
‘What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?’
again demanded Bessie.
‘Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come.’
I had now got hold of Bessie’s hand, and she did not
snatch it from me.
‘She has screamed out on purpose,’ declared Abbot, in
some disgust. ‘And what a scream! If she had been in great
pain one would have excused it, but she only wanted to
bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks.’
‘What is all this?’ demanded another voice
peremptorily; and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor, her
cap flying wide, her gown rustling stormily. ‘Abbot and
Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left
in the red-room till I came to her myself.’
‘Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma’am,’ pleaded Bessie.
‘Let her go,’ was the only answer. ‘Loose Bessie’s hand,
child: you cannot succeed in getting out by these means,
be assured. I abhor artifice, particularly in children; it is my
duty to show you that tricks will not answer: you will
now stay here an hour longer, and it is only on condition

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of perfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you
then.’
‘O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it—let
me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if—‘
‘Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:’ and so, no
doubt, she felt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes; she
sincerely looked on me as a compound of virulent
passions, mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity.
Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed,
impatient of my now frantic anguish and wild sobs,
abruptly thrust me back and locked me in, without farther
parley. I heard her sweeping away; and soon after she was
gone, I suppose I had a species of fit: unconsciousness
closed the scene.

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Chapter III
The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling
as if I had had a frightful nightmare, and seeing before me
a terrible red glare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard
voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and as if
muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation, uncertainty,
and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my
faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one was
handling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting
posture, and that more tenderly than I had ever been
raised or upheld before. I rested my head against a pillow
or an arm, and felt easy.
In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment
dissolved: I knew quite well that I was in my own bed,
and that the red glare was the nursery fire. It was night: a
candle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at the bed-foot
with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair
near my pillow, leaning over me.
I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of
protection and security, when I knew that there was a
stranger in the room, an individual not belonging to
Gateshead., and not related to Mrs. Reed. Turning from

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Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me
than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I
scrutinised the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was
Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs.
Reed when the servants were ailing: for herself and the
children she employed a physician.
‘Well, who am I?’ he asked.
I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time
my hand: he took it, smiling and saying, ‘We shall do very
well by-and-by.’ Then he laid me down, and addressing
Bessie, charged her to be very careful that I was not
disturbed during the night. Having given some further
directions, and intimates that he should call again the next
day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and
befriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as
he closed the door after him, all the room darkened and
my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness weighed it
down.
‘Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?’ asked Bessie,
rather softly.
Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next
sentence might be rough. ‘I will try.’
‘Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?’
‘No, thank you, Bessie.’
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Figyelem! Ez itt a doksi tartalma kivonata.
Kérlek kattints ide, ha a dokumentum olvasóban szeretnéd megnézni!


/> Source: http://www.doksi.net

Jane Eyre

‘Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve
o’clock; but you may call me if you want anything in the
night.’
Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a
question.
‘Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?’
‘You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying;
you’ll be better soon, no doubt.’
Bessie went into the housemaid’s apartment, which was
near. I heard her say ‘Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I
daren’t for my life be alone with that poor child to-night:
she might die; it’s such a strange thing she should have
that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis was rather too
hard.’
Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they
were whispering together for half-an-hour before they fell
asleep. I caught scraps of their conversation, from which I
was able only too distinctly to infer the main subject
discussed.
‘Something passed her, all dressed in white, and
vanished’—‘A great black dog behind him’—‘Three loud
raps on the chamber door’—‘A light in the churchyard
just over his grave,’ &c. &c.
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At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For
me, the watches of that long night passed in ghastly
wakefulness; strained by dread: such dread as children only
can feel.
No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this
incident of the red-room; it only gave my nerves a shock
of which I feel the reverberation to this day. Yes, Mrs.
Reed, to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental
suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for you knew not
what you did: while rending my heart-strings, you
thought you were only uprooting my bad propensities.
Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat
wrapped in a shawl by the nursery hearth. I felt physically
weak and broken down: but my worse ailment was an
unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which
kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped
one salt drop from my cheek than another followed. Yet, I
thought, I ought to have been happy, for none of the
Reeds were there, they were all gone out in the carriage
with their mama. Abbot, too, was sewing in another
room, and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither, putting
away toys and arranging drawers, addressed to me every
now and then a word of unwonted kindness. This state of
things should have been to me a paradise of peace,
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accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and
thankless fagging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now
in such a state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure
excite them agreeably.
Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she
brought up with her a tart on a certain brightly painted
china plate, whose bird of paradise, nestling in a wreath of
convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in me a
most enthusiastic sense of admiration; and which plate I
had often petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in
order to examine it more closely, but had always hitherto
been deemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious
vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was cordially
invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain
favour! coming, like most other favours long deferred and
often wished for, too late! I could not eat the tart; and the
plumage of the bird, the tints of the flowers, seemed
strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessie
asked if I would have a book: the word BOOK acted as a
transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver’s
Travels from the library. This book I had again and again
perused with delight. I considered it a narrative of facts,
and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper than what I
found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought them
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in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, under mushrooms
and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, I
had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, that they
were all gone out of England to some savage country
where the woods were wilder and thicker, and the
population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag
being, in my creed, solid parts of the earth’s surface, I
doubted not that I might one day, by taking a long
voyage, see with my own eyes the little fields, houses, and
trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and
birds of t
Figyelem! Ez itt a doksi tartalma kivonata.
Kérlek kattints ide, ha a dokumentum olvasóban szeretnéd megnézni!


he one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the
mighty mastiffs, the monster cats, the tower-like men and
women, of the other. Yet, when this cherished volume
was now placed in my hand—when I turned over its
leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I
had, till now, never failed to find—all was eerie and
dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies
malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate
wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions. I closed
the book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on
the table, beside the untasted tart.
Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room,
and having washed her hands, she opened a certain little
drawer, full of splendid shreds of silk and satin, and began
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making a new bonnet for Georgiana’s doll. Meantime she
sang: her song was ‘In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago.’
I had often heard the song before, and always with
lively delight; for Bessie had a sweet voice,—at least, I
thought so. But now, though her voice was still sweet, I
found in its melody an indescribable sadness. Sometimes,
preoccupied with her work, she sang the refrain very low,
very lingeringly; ‘A long time ago’ came out like the
saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passed into another
ballad, this time a really doleful one.
‘My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;
Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;
Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary
Over the path of the poor orphan child.
Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?
Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only
Watch o’er the steps of a poor orphan child.
Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,
Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,
God, in His mercy, protection is showing,
Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.

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Ev’n should I fall o’er the broken bridge passing,
Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,
Still will my Father, with promise and blessing,
Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.
There is a thought that for strength should avail me,
Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;
Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;
God is a friend to the poor orphan child.’
‘Come, Miss Jane, don’t cry,’ said Bessie as she finished.
She might as well have said to the fire, ‘don’t burn!’ but
how could she divine the morbid suffering to which I was
a prey? In the course of the morning Mr. Lloyd came
again.
‘What, already up!’ said he, as he entered the nursery.
‘Well, nurse, how is she?’
Bessie answered that I was doing very well.
‘Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here,
Miss Jane: your name is Jane, is it not?’
‘Yes, sir, Jane Eyre.’
‘Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you
tell me what about? Have you any pain?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go
out with Missis in the carriage,’ interposed Bessie.
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‘Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness.’
I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded
by the false charge, I answered promptly, ‘I never cried for
such a thing in my life: I hate going out in the carriage. I
cry because I am miserable.’
‘Oh fie, Miss!’ said Bessie.
The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was
standing before him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily:
his eyes were small and grey; not very bright, but I dare
say I should think them shrewd now: he had a hardfeatured yet good-natured looking face. Having
considered me at leisure, he said ‘What made you ill yesterday?’
‘She had a fall,’ said Bessie, again putting in her word.
‘Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can’t she manage
to walk at her age? She must be eight or nine years old.’
‘I was knocked down,’ was the blunt explanation,
jerked out of me by another pang of mortified pride; ‘but
that did not make me ill,’ I added; while Mr. Lloyd helped
himself to a pinch of snuff.
As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a
loud bell rang for the servants’ dinner; he knew what it
was. ‘That’s for you, nurse,’ said he; ‘you can go down; I’ll
give Miss Jane a lecture till you come back.’
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